


Lie where I land, (Let my bones turn to sand.)

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: Avengers: Endgame - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Major Spoilers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 01:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: All Tony Stark knows, when he wakes, is that Morgan fits perfectly into the crook of Peter’s arms, and that is as it should be.





	Lie where I land, (Let my bones turn to sand.)

**Author's Note:**

> “Die if I must let my bones turn to dust,  
> I'm the lord of the lake and I don't want to leave,  
> All who sail off the coast ever more,  
> Will remember the tale of the ghost on the shore. – Ghost on the shore, Lord Huron

_Ash_.

 _Dust_.

It filters around them, glints in the low light of the flames that lick and flicker in the twilight. It settles in the rivulets of crimson-stained water that carves through the landscape, through the battlefield, rolling bodies and weapons along with its tide. It dances along the wind, whisking into the unknown, up into the gaping more of the universe, lost amongst the smoke and _stars_.

For five years, it had been the bane of his existence, the gritty, _chalky_ , feel of it beneath his fingernails, sitting in the crevices of wounds marring the calloused skin of his hands. A nanotech suit had been beneath his grasp, a squirming, _terrified_ teenager confined within. The armour had been designed to keep him safe from blades, and bullets, and raging alien _titans_ , but not enough to knit his scattering atoms together, to prevent his cells from peeling away. It had not been enough to combat the six infinity stones burning with their brilliance and scouring with their _intensity_. The ash, it had settled around him then, brushed against his cheeks, a whimpering boy beneath his palm, and then, nothing, only _dust_.

He can taste it now, can feel it coating the back of his tongue, thick and lining the roof of his mouth. The must of it mixing with the metallic tinge of blood, the motor oil of a leaking suit, the smokiness of gun powder. The dust, it sits with him now, rests in the wretched and _molten_ flesh of his right arm, kisses the crevices carved into his cheek, and it is a comfort of all things.

Because Peter is crouched before him, tears tracking trenches into the grime slathered across his features, but whole and alive. With eyes the colour of wet mud smeared across gold, he looks at Tony with fear, _terror_ , something like desperation bleeding into the moisture that clings to his eyelashes.

He is speaking, Tony can see the tremble of his lips, can see the way his throat bobs with emotion, but the pain is all consuming, it’s writhing within his insides, _roaring_ and _rampant_ , something like mortality seeping into his bloodstream, a death rattle resting in his ash-lined lungs.

And then Peter is shifting to the side, lithe body wracked with grief, crumpling to the unforgiving earth and Pepper is taking his place, the blue of her armour bright and brilliant in the lowlight of the destruction littered around them. She doesn’t dare to touch him, doesn’t dare to jostle him or the burns etched into his flesh.

All Tony Stark knows, in those last precious moments, is the gaze of the woman he loves.

.

 

.

All Tony Stark knows, when he wakes, is that Morgan fits perfectly into the crook of Peter’s arms, and that is as it should be.

They are nestled within an armchair, the chocolate tresses of her hair hiding her features, shielding her form the harshness of the hospital lights. His gaze, _Peter’s gaze_ , is fixated on her, a softness to his tired features. His fingers are linked around her back, his thumb occasionally running up and down the bottom of her spine, a comfort to either himself or the little girl, Tony is not so sure.

It is a sign of his exhaustion, that Peter doesn’t notice the uplift in the drone of machines surrounding them, his senses not locking onto the fact that Tony has managed to loll his head to the side, the better to view the miracles sitting at his bedside.

His right arm is immobilised, strapped to his chest, and still encased within his armour, the nanotech cradling his injury, a symbol of his sacrifice, similar to the arc reactor that had been lodged within his chest for close to five years. His cheek is covered in gauze, and Tony knows, though his eye is hidden beneath a patch, that should the cover be removed, his vision would remain black. An irony he is not yet willing to face, when he thinks of the protocols in place, the proprieties he and Pepper formed before the Time Heist, another similarity between he and Fury.

There is time later, to contemplate the decisions he has made, the freedom that comes with something like death. Now, with the pain ebbed by copious amounts of morphine, now is the time to relish on his sacrifices, and what he has _brought back_.

“ _Peter_ ,” it’s a croak, and it’s _choked_ , but it is enough, enough to have the boy wrenching his head from where it rested against Morgan, enough to have tears welling within the hazel of his eyes.

It is enough to tug forth a breathless laugh, and _ah, there it is_ , that Parker smile.

.

 

.

All Tony knows, when he wakes, is that he needs to get out of this hospital, needs to be by the lake with his family, to feel the breeze of the water as it tangles through Pepper’s locks, and hear the childish squeals of Morgan as Peter propels her into the water, a web latched firmly to her back and a laugh etched into his features.

All Tony knows, as Happy looms within the doorframe, exasperated and red around the edges, is that he must be improving, judging by the insufferable huff Happy expels into the stale, stark, hospital room with its bleak walls and sterile décor. And though there is defeat riddled in his posture, scrawled across his face, there in the depths of his eyes lies amusement, sparkling and certain, as if something has settled in the universe.

Pepper organises the transfer, Bruce by his side every moment as he’s transported back to the lake, back _home_. He bites at his tongue as his arms jostles with the movement, eyes riveted on the glinting metal of his gauntlet, a sparkle of ruby red in the morning light.

When they arrive, when Rhodey guides him across the lawn, mechanical braces whirring as they both conquer the stairs, offering soft words of encouragement as Tony’s legs begin to tremble, a sweat breaking across his brow as the pain ratchets, when they cross the threshold of his _home_ and Peter is splayed across the worn-in couch, a mouth full of cereal and a goofy grin plastered across his features, Tony feels as if he can finally _breathe_ again.

.

 

.

Morgan’s hair is silky beneath his fingertips, cradled as she is within his lap, body blanketed with rest and _safety_. Peter is a solid presence beside him, warm and steady, his fingers drumming against Tony’s thigh, and though he has died and then _lived_ again, restless energy, bright and bubbly and positively _infectious_ , still thrums through his being.

A film is playing on the television; Pepper and Rhodey are sharing the other couch, Happy lounging in the armchair, with Bruce propped up on some pillows, decorative and picked specifically by Pepper, by his feet. The colours are flashing through the darkness, images reflecting off the windows and dancing through the night. Tony can’t focus on the film, is only truly aware of the delicate children bundled within his grasp. Without thought, he presses a kiss to Peter’s temple, smiling against his flesh when Peter finally falls still, his hand falling lax.

“Love you, kid,” he murmurs, and Tony thinks to himself, that this may be the first time _ever_ that Peter hasn’t be able to focus on Star Wars, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he turns to Tony, blissfully unaware of the indulgent grins gracing the features of the other adults in the room.

“Love you too, Mr Stark.”

.

 

.

It is here that he rests, in the company of the lake, with his family, forged and welded together, for Tony will always and forever be a mechanic. There is peace settled into the very fabric of his being now, sowed into the distorted flesh of his right-side. He can see it in the eyes of Pepper, in the smile of Rhodey, he can hear it in Bruce’s voice and feel it in Happy’s reassuring touches.

And most of all, Tony Stark can see peace settled into the narrow set of Peter Parker’s shoulders, the youthful quirk of his lips, and the flex of his fingers, he can hear it in his jubilant laughter, excited voice carrying over the water and whisked away by the wind.

Tony Stark looks out across the lake, feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, bathed in the sun’s rays, and he closes his eyes.

A moment later, he feels Peter settle beside him, and Tony breathes out.


End file.
